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SEA    DOGS 


AND 


MEN    AT   ARMS 


A  CANADIAN  BOOK  OF  SONGS 


BY 

JESSE    EDGAR    MIDDLETON 


The  frontispiece  is  reproduced  by  permission  of 

W.  H.  Veno,  Manchester,  England, 

Owner  of  the  copyright  and  publisher  of  the 
large  coloured  plate. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK  AND   LONDON 

Ube  1kntc??erboc??er  press 

1918 


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SEA    DOGS 


AND 


MEN    AT   ARMS 


A  CANADIAN  BOOK  OF  SONGS 


BY 

JESSE    EDGAR    MIDDLETON 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK  AND   LONDON 

XTbe  1Rntcfterboc[?er  press 

1918 


Copyright,  1918 

BY 

JESSE   EDGAR    MIDDLETON 


Ube  Iknfcftcrbocfter  pxcBSf  "ftcw  ISovft 


XtO 


MY    WIFE 


1^5    2  ^ 


035 


Prefatory  Note 

Most  of  the  verses  here  collected  first 
appeared  in  the  Toronto  Daily  News,  to 
which  the  author  is  indebted  for  permission 
to  reprint.  ''  The  American  Aviator,"  under 
the  title  of  "The  American  Volunteer,"  ap- 
peared in  the  A II- Story  Magazine,  of  New 
York,  and  ''Canada  to  America"  in  Munsey's 
Magazine.  These  are  included  by  the 
courtesy  of  the  publishers. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Canadian       .... 

I 

Canada  to  America 

4 

The  Ballad  of  Jack  Monroe 

5 

A  Christmas  Carol 

8 

Moods          .         .         .         .         . 

ID 

H.  M.  Destroyer  Broke 

14 

A  Ballad  of  Warriors 

i6 

A  Soldier's  Song           .         .         .         , 

i8 

Arrived:  H.  M.  S.  Good  Hope 

20 

Off  Heligoland            .         .         .         . 

22 

The  Voyagers      .         .         .         .         . 

24 

Off  Ushant           .... 

26 

The  Engineer       .... 

.          28 

Missing  at  Lloyd's 

.       30 

Captains  Courageous 

.       32 

The  Nereid             .... 

.       34 

Vll 


viii                      Contents 

PAGE 

Only  Three 36 

The  Rover 

.       37 

A  Wardroom  Song 

38 

The  New  Birth    . 

•       39 

Trafalgar 

.       40 

Then  and  Now 

.       43 

Under  the  Black  Eagle 

45 

A  Song  of  Romance 

.       47 

King  Edward  the  Seventh 

.       50 

Peace  and  War     . 

.       52 

The  Brotherhood 

.       54 

Et  Nunc,  Reges,  Intelligite 

56 

The  Mother 

.       58 

Garrulous  Critics 

.       59 

The  Zeppelin 

61 

Lord  Kitchener 

.       63 

The  Parting 

.       65 

Dismounted 

67 

In  the  Crucible 

,       68 

Cent 

cnts 

ix 

PAGE 

A  Song  of  the  Flag      ....       70 

For  Dominion  Day 

.      72 

Billy 

•       73 

The  Question 

.       74 

The  American  Aviator 

'       7b 

The  Old-Time  Colour 

.       76 

Of  Walking  Soldierly 

.       17 

The  Fruitage 

78 

The  Children 

.       79 

Irony 

.80 

The  Rejected 

, 

81 

A  Sonnet  of  Purple 

82 

Langemarck 

83 

Flag  Day 

84 

To  Canada 

85 

Life 

86 

To  the  Absent 

87 

The  Miner 

89 

The  Penalty 

91 

X                        Contents 

PAGE 

Samoa  and  R.  L.  S. 

.       93 

Rachmaninoff       .         .         .         . 

.       94 

The  Demagogue 

.       96 

Content       .         .         .         .         . 

.       97 

Lake  Louise          .         .         .         . 

.       98 

The  Eternal  Why 

•       99 

The  Three  More  Wise  Men 

.       lOI 

A  Ballade  of  Clowning 

.     103 

SEA  DOGS  AND  MEN  AT  ARMS 


Sea  Dogs  and  Men  at  Arms 


THE   CANADIAN 

I  NEVER  saw  the  cliffs  of  snow, 
The  Channel  billows  tipped  with  cream 
The  restless,  eddying  tides  that  flow 

About  the  Island  of  my  dream. 
I  never  saw  the  English  downs 

Upon  an  April  day. 
The  quiet,  old  Cathedral  towns, 
The  hedgerows  white  with  may. 

And  still  the  na^ne  oj  England' 
Which  tyrants  laugh  to  scorn 

Can  thrill  my  soul.    It  is  to  me 
A  very  bugle-horn, 

A  thousand  leagues  from  Plymouth  shore, 
In  broader  lands  I  saw  the  light. 

I  never  heard  the  cannon  roar 

Or  saw  a  mark  of  England's  might; 


2  The  Canadian 

Save  that  my  people  lived  in  peace, 

Bronzed  in  the  harvest  sun, 
And  thought  that  tyranny  would  cease, 

That  battle-days  were  done. 

And  still  the  flag  of  England 
Streamed  on  a  friendly  breeze, 

And  twice  two  hundred  ships  of  war 
Went  surging  through  the  seas. 

I  heard  Polonius  declaim 

About  the  new,  the  golden  age, 
When  Force  would  be  the  mark  of  shame 

And  men  would  curb  their  murderous  rage. 
"Beat  out  your  swords  to  pruning  hooks," 

He  shouted  to  the  folk. 
But  I — I  read  my  history  books 

And  marvelled  as  he  spoke. 

For  it  was  glorious  England, 

The  mother  of  the  Free, 
Who  loosed  that  foolish  tongue,  hut  sent 

Her  Admirals  to  sea. 

And  liberty  and  love  were  ours, 
Home,  and  a  brood  of  lusty  sons. 

The  long,  North  sunHght  and  the  flow'rs. 
How  could  we  think  about  the  guns, 


The  Canadian 

The  searchlights  on  a  wintry  cloud, 
The  seamen,  stern  and  bold, 

Since  we  were  hurrying  with  the  crowd 
To  rake  the  hills  for  gold? 

But  it  was  glorious  England 

Who  scanned  the  threatening  mor7i. 

To  me  the  very  name  of  her 
Is  like  a  hugle-horn. 


CANADA  TO  AMERICA 

AT  Vimy  Ridge  your  Flag  was  shown, 
The  starry  Flag  we  love  to  praise. 
By  one  bold  Paladin  'twas  borne. 

Wreathe  him  the  myrtle  with  the  bays. 

He  wore  our  tunic  gallantly, 
Our  flag  was  his,  our  bugle  call. 

And  seeking  after  Liberty 

He  thought  of  Home,  and  yielded  all. 

God  rest  him !  But  Canadian  guns 
Had  torn  the  enemy  to  wrack. 

The  bayonets  of  our  Northern  sons 
Gleamed  minatory  in  his  track. 

Your  Flag  was  there.     Your  spirit  spoke 
Against  this  tyranny  and  wrong. 

But  we  were  in  the  battle-smoke 
A  hundred  thousand  strong. 

According  to  the  despatches,  Private  Robert  Davis,  of 
Texas,  a  member  of  one  of  the  Canadian  battalions  which 
fought  at  Vimy  Ridge,  April  9,  19 17,  carried  an  American 
flag  and  waved  it  from  the  crest  of  the  captured  Ridge. 
He  was  killed  in  action  shortly  afterwards.  This  is  said 
to  be  the  first  time  that  Old  Glory  was  ever  displayed  on  a 
European  battlefield. 

4 


THE  BALLAD  OF  JACK  MONROE 

OH,  this  is  the  tale  of  Jack  Monroe, 
With  arm  of  iron  and  fist  of  brass, 
Who  fought  a  Champion  long  ago ! 

(The   glittering   years!     How   swift   they 
pass!) 
And  his  back  was  broad  and  his  eyes  were 

bright 
And  his  soul  was  square  and  his  spirit  light. 

He  tramped  far  over  the  mossy  rocks, 
The  rocks  which  bloom  into  cobalt  rose, 

Where  the  geese  go  past  in  their  arrow  flocks, 
Where  the  spruce  sings  soft  as  the  Norther 
blows, 

Where  the  Polar  Torches  illume  the  sky 

And  the  mystic  lakes  of  the  forest  lie. 

He  came  one  day  to  the  mining  town 
Across  the  lake  in  his  bark  canoe. 

He  filed  his  claims  and  they  wrote  them  down 
And    plotted    them    all,    and    put    them 
through. 

5 


6       The  Ballad  of  Jack  Monroe 

Then   they   spoke   to   him,    by   the   veriest 

chance, 
Of  the  bloody  war  on  the  plains  of  France. 

''A  war?"  he  said,  with  a  questing  eye. 

"Is    England    in    it?"      They   answered, 
"Yes." 
Then  Jack  Monroe  raised  his  head  on  high 

And  answered:  "It's  up  to  me,  I  guess. 
I  have  a  sister.     She  gets  my  coin. 
Make  out  my  will.     I'm  a-goin'  to  join. " 

And  thus  it  was  that  old  Jack  Monroe 
Brought  deeds  and  papers,  a  goodly  store, 

To  the  claim  Recorder  the  miners  know 
And  saw  them  behind  a  good  steel  door, 

And  signed  his  will,  and  remarked:  "So  long! 

I  was  always  stuck  on  the  bugle's  song. " 

For  he  said:  "It's  Duty,  and  nothing  less, " 
And  his  lips  were  tight  and  his  smile  was 
grim, 
"So  put  me  down  for  the  Privates'  Mess. 

The  King  is  calling,  and  I'm  for  him. 
And  what   are  the   odds  if   I   don't   come 

back? 
They  named  me  after  the  Union  Jack. " 


The  Ballad  of  Jack  Monroe 

And  so  he  signed  with  the  **  Princess  Pats. 

You  saw  the  beautiful  regiment  start 
With  the  saucy  swing  and  the  rakish  hats 

And  the  love  of  a  Girl  in  every  heart. 
And  this  is  the  story  miners  tell 
Of  a  fighting-man  who  set  out  for  Hell. 


»> 


A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL 

GOD  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen, 
Let  nothing  you  dismay. 
The  living  Son  of  Mary  stands 

In  the  listening  post  today. 
And  if  you  fight  for  weaker  folk, 

For  babes  upon  the  breast. 
Then  have  you  fought  full  gallantly 
And  bayonets  may  be  blest. 

God  save  you,  merry  sailor  folk, 

A-roving  on  the  seas, 
With  lightning  in  the  turret  guns, 

With  winter  on  the  breeze. 
Saint  Peter  was  a  sailor  man. 

The  sons  of  Zebedee 
Could  haul  a  sheet  or  reeve  a  block 

On  boisterous  Galilee. 

God  rest  you,  merry  bombadier, 

Beside  the  hidden  gun. 
There  was  a  Roman  officer 

Who  came  to  Mary's  Son, 

8 


A  Christmas  Carol 

And  wore  his  blade  more  manfully 

Beneath  the  Syrian  skies, 
Because  the  radiance  of  a  Hope 

Was  ever  in  his  eyes. 

God  save  you,  good  Canadians, 

Let  nothing  you  dismay, 
For  He  was  brave  and  went  to  death 

Calm  as  a  summer's  day, 
Stronger  than  all  the  heathen  gods, 

(Let  Thor  and  Wotan  quake!) 
Ay!  look  ye  well  at  Mary's  Son 

Who  died  for  Honour's  sake. 


MOODS 

(Suggested  by   Debussy's   Sonata    for    Violoncello    and 

Pianoforte) 

THE  FIRST  MOVEMENT 

UNFINISHED  songs ! 
Pine  boards,  half-planed ! 
Bargain  and  sale, 
Quarrel  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
All  ended  like  a  tale. 
Good-bye,  good-bye 
To  dreary  toils  of  peace ! 
Clear  on  the  morning  gale 
Trumpets  ring  high, 
Zouaves  are  in  the  Place, 
And  guns  go  by. 
I,  Jean  Pierre 
Of  the  Sixteenth  Corps, 
Must  rise 
And  hell-bent,  hasten  there. 

lO 


Moods  n 

THE   SERENATA 

Yet,  must  I  pause 

To  kiss  my  lady's  lips. 

Peril  of  earth  and  air, 

Peril  of  ships 

May  reave  my  life, 

Leave  me  to  stare. 

Unwinking  at  the  petty  five-franc  moon, 

And  I  would  say  farewell 

Before  it  come  to  be. 

Here  is  her  slight  guitar 

Beribboned,  out  of  tune. 

I  sweep  the  strings. 

They  only  mar 

My  heart's  insistent  minor  melody. 

She  greets  me 

With  an  outstretched  hand 

Coldly, 

With  a  pale  smile, 

Then,  turns  to  see 

A  passing  band. 

Chatters  a  while 

Of  everything  but  love 

And  Native  Land, 

Jests  of  the  torn,  white  glove 

Upon  her  hand. 


12  Moods 

And  then, 

As  a  lone  bugle  shrills 

For  me, 

And  I  would  go, 

The  tempest  of  her  sudden  grief 

Bursts  in  a  freshet  flow. 

Her  arms  imprison  me. 

She  sobs  aloud,  "No,  no!" 

THE  FINALE 

Now  with  my  comrades, 

Rank  on  serried  rank, 

I  march,  with  soldier  laugh 

And  rough-hewn  jest, 

Past  the  fair  daisy  bank, 

Then  take  my  evening  rest 

In  bosky  shades. 

While  through  the  inky  glades 

The  nightingale 

Hymns  his  alluring  note. 

Above  the  bivouac 

The  moon  sails  high. 

The  cruel  five-franc  moon, 

Glaring  on  such  as  I, 

Doomed,  doomed  to  die, 

On  the  red  sod  to  lie, 


Moods  13 

With  fixed  blue-purple  stare 
Away  from  love, 
Away  from  care. 

But  as  I  dream, 

Kissing  a  torn  white  glove, 

Of  that  divinely  passionate  embrace, 

Life  is  a  sevenfold  glory, 

Death 

(So  Hope  cajoles  me) 

But  the  hero  of  a  fairy  story. 


H.   M.   DESTROYER  BROKE 

THEY  called  her  Broke,  and  a  splash  of 
wine 
Foamed  white  as  she  left  the  smoking  ways, 
The  lean  Destroyer  of  airy  line, 
And  they  thought  of  the  Shannon^ s  guns 
ablaze. 

(And  we  Canadians  know  their  tracks, 
This  Broke,  and  the  noble  crew  he  led, 

As  they  jury-masted  to  Halifax, 

With  a  splintered  hull  and  the  scuppers 
red.) 

They  called  her   Broke,   and  perhaps  they 
prayed 

That  the  memory  of  an  ancient  fight 
Would  shine  upon  gun  and  cutlass  blade. 

And  give  the  sailors  a  double  light. 

And  so  it  was,  when  a  bloody  foe 
Swarmed  all  about  in  a  rolling  sea. 

With  only  a  crimson  flash  to  show 
The  messengers  of  calamity. 

14 


H.  M.  Destroyer  Broke        15 

The  spirit  glimmered  upon  the  "sight" 
And  Umned  in  silver  the  foeman's  craft. 

Then  out  of  the  velvet,  April  night 

The  ghostly  crew  of  the  Shannon  laughed. 


A   BALLAD   OF   WARRIORS 

SOME  acres  of  appalling  land 
Before  our  fellows  lay. 
A  blade  of  grass  could  scarcely  stand 
On  that  tempestuous  clay, 
Shelled  without  stay. 
The  enemy  had  swept  us  out 
But  yesterday. 

Grim  were  the  powder-dusted  cheeks, 

Tears  channelling  the  grime. 
The  labour  of  a  dozen  weeks 

Lost,  in  one  blast  of  time, 

In  one  clock  chime. 
''We'll  have  it  back, "  they  fiercely  cried 

With  faith  sublime. 

The  corps  commander  smiled  and  said : 

"The  task  is  far  too  great. 
Your  shattered  force,  however  led, — 

I  tremble  for  its  fate. 

If  you  will  wait, 
I'll  send  a  regiment  of  Guards, 

Fresh  and  elate." 

i6 


A  Ballad  of  Warriors  17 

"We  lost  it, "  said  the  Brigadier, 

"We'll  take  it  back  tonight. 
Give  us  permission,  and  a  cheer 

To  help  us  in  the  fight. 

Thank  you.     Good-night. 
And  save  the  Guards  for  other  tasks 

To  suit  their  might. 


^s^^  " 


Into  the  flares  of  Hell  they  ran, 

Determined,  unafraid, 
A  hero-soul  in  every  man. 

Dearly  the  foeman  paid, 

Blade  to  red  blade. 
In  death  they  cried,  "We  need  no  Guards 

In  Our  Brigade." 


A   SOLDIER'S   SONG 

I  KNOW  a  stream  in  elfin  land 
Where  lazy  ripples  curl, 
Where  the  round  pebble  on  the  strand 

Shines  milky  as  a  pearl. 
And  up,  and  up  the  elm  trees  look, 

The  topmost  cloud  their  goal. 
One  sweeping  branch  above  the  brook 
Cradles  an  oriole. 

The  thorns  are  summer  drifts  of  snow, 

The  bees  are  plundering  near. 
Brave  is  the  dandelion  show, 

The  whirling  swifts  appear. 
So  velvet-green  the  meadow  dress, 

So  heavenly  blue  the  sky, 
That  in  the  pain  of  happiness 

The  dews  bedim  mine  eye. 

An  earthy  bank  in  violet  guise 

Illumes  the  lovely  shade, 
The  colour  of  a  sweetheart's  eyes. 

Would  they  might  never  fade. 

i8 


A  Soldier  s  Song  19 

But  violets  will  droop  and  die, 
And  sweethearts'  eyes  will  close, 

For  even  there,  in  elfin  land, 
The  icy  death- wind  blows. 


ARRIVED:   H.   M.  S.  GOOD  HOPE 

COLLINGWOOD  on  the  Sea  of  Glass, 
Rolling  up  to  the  Jasper  Walls, 
Came  about  on  the  starboard  tack, 

Stood  by  the  mizzen  halliard  falls. 
Broke  a  signal  to  Hawke  and  Hood, 

Both  hull-down  on  the  shining  sea; 
This  was  the  fluttering  word  he  sent : 
"Cradock  is  anchoring  aft  of  me. " 

There,  in  his  ship  of  battle-grey, 

There,  with  his  crew  all  smart  and  trim, 
Under-bo'sns  and  warrantmen, 

And  the  jollies  saluting  him. 
Collingwood,  from  the  Sovereign's  deck, 

Marked  the  ship  on  the  golden  swell, 
Said  to  his  flag-lieutenant,  "Sir, 

We  are  only  a  cockle-shell. " 

"Man  the  gig!     I  must  go  aboard. 

Such  a  ship  for  the  Sea  of  Glass! 
Look,  the  ensign  is  floating  still, 

(But,  it's  oh  for  the  sailor's  lass!) 

20 


Arrived:  H.  M.  S.  Good  Hope  21 

They  are  done  with  the  westward  Trades, 
Done  with  the  long  Pacific  swell, 

Done  with  the  gales  of  Hatteras. 

England  called,  and  they  served  her  well. " 

Cradock  stood  on  his  shattered  deck, 

While  the  spirit  in  silken  smalls 
Mounted  the  ladder,  took  his  hand, 

There  in  sight  of  the  Jasper  Walls. 
Collingwood,  of  the  Sea  of  Glass, 

Nelson,  Jervis  and  gallant  Blake, 
Cheered  the  Admiral,  Ship,  and  Crew 

Dead  and  gone  for  Old  England's  sake. 


OFF  HELIGOLAND 

GHOSTLY  ships  in  a  ghostly  sea. 
(Here's  to  Drake  in  the  Spanish  main !) 
Hark  to  the  turbines  running  free, 

Oil-cups  full  and  the  orders  plain. 
Plunging  into  the  misty  night, 

Surging  into  the  rolling  brine, 
Never  a  word,  and  never  a  light — 
This  for  England,  that  love  of  mine  1 

Look!  A  gleam  on  the  starboard  bow 

(Here's  to  the  fighting  Temeraire!) 
Quartermaster,  be  ready  now. 

Two  points  over,  and  keep  her  there. 
Ghostly  ships — let  the  foemen  grieve. 

Yon's  the  Admiral,  tight  and  trim, 
And  one  more — with  an  empty  sleeve, 

Standing  a  little  aft  of  him ! 

Slender,  young,  in  a  coat  of  blue, 
(Here's  to  the  Agamemnon's  pride!) 

Out  of  the  mists  that  long  he  knew, 
Out  of  the  Victory,  where  he  died, 

32 


Off  Heligoland  23 

Here,  to  the  battle-front  he  came. 

See,  he  smiles  in  his  gallant  way! 
Ghostly  ships  in  a  ghostly  game, 

Roaring  guns  on  a  ghostly  day ! 

There,  in  his  white  silk  smalls  he  stands, 

(Here's  to  Nelson,  with  three  times  three!) 
Coming  out  of  the  misty  lands 

Far,  far  over  the  misty  sea. 
Now  the  Foe  is  a  shattered  wreck, 

Speeding  out  of  the  deadly  fight. 
Smiling  now,  on  the  quarter-deck 

Is  the  Spirit,  all  silver-bright. 


THE  VOYAGERS 

GENTLEMEN    Adventurers    (like    Fro- 
bisher  and  Drake) 
See  the  billow  surging  yet  along  the  leeward 

strake, 
Batten  down  the  for'ard  hatch  and  shake  the 

tops'ls  free; 
Gentlemen  Adventurers  are  still  upon  the 
sea. 

Gentlemen    Adventurers    (like    Olav    Tryg- 

vason), 
Mark  an  angry  copper  sky  before  the  sunset 

gun, 
Make  the  craft  all  snug  and  tight  ere  yet  the 

blast  they  feel, 
Call  the  quartermaster's  mate  and  lash  him 

to  the  wheel. 

Gentlemen  Adventurers  (like  Hawkins,  Bligh 

and  Cook) 
Long  ago   the    Channel  buoys  full  cheerily 

forsook. 

24 


The  Voyagers  25 

Still    they    tack    around    the    Horn,    with 

breakers  on  their  lee, 
While  the  hasty  petrel  skims  the  valleys  of 

the  sea. 

Gentlemen  Adventurers  (like  Franklin  and 

his  crew) 
Bend  before  the  Polar  blast  and  struggle  on 

anew. 
Gentlemen  Adventurers!    A  toast  to  them 

I  call. 
Soldierly  they  do  their  tasks,  and  soldierly 

they  fall. 


OFF   USHANT 

A  GREY  sea  and  a  lazy  wave 
That  ripples  upon  the  strand. 
A  rosy  gull  in  the  morning  light 

Which  flames  from  the  lofty  land. 
A  ribbon  weed  in  a  rocky  bay, 
And  this  is  rest,  on  a  Summer  day. 

A  blue  sea  and  a  snow-crowned  wave 
That  dances  in  mad  delight. 

The  flaring  sun  on  a  distant  sail, 
On  the  lighthouse  tall  and  white. 

A  bubbling  flood  in  the  rocky  bay. 

And  this  is  joy,  on  a  Summer  day. 

A  wild  sea  and  a  savage  wave, 
With  the  spindrift  flying  past. 

An  endless  roar  on  the  shingle  strand 
And  the  gulls  a-f eared  at  last. 

The  lighthouse  dull  in  the  ugly  day 

And  foaming  rage  in  the  rocky  bay. 

26 


Off  Ushant  2^ 

A  dark  sea  and  a  glinting  wave 

In  a  blue  and  mystic  light. 
A  murderous  foe  in  a  phantom  ship 

Unseen  in  the  awful  night. 
And  now,  in  the  furtive  dawn  of  da}^ 
A  shattered  boat  in  the  rocky  bay. 


THE  ENGINEER 

THE  long,  grey  ships  are  running  free 
And  loitering  is  done; 
A  drift  of  foam  at  every  prow, 

A  crew  at  every  gun. 
And  captains  smile,  and  seamen  shout, 

But  Lower  Decks  are  grim. 
For  whatsoe'er  may  come,  they  know 
The  engines  must  be  trim. 

The  Admiral  can  see  the  fleet 

Come  rolling  into  place. 
The  flag-lieutenant  spells  his  code 

With  laughter  on  his  face. 
These  are  the  men  for  whom  the  world 

Upraises  many  a  cheer. 
But  few  of  us  take  knowledge  of 

The  grimy  Engineer. 

A  shell  may  pierce  the  armoured  deck 
And  tear  his  crank  to  scrap. 

The  cruel  steam  may  come,  and  still 
He  stands  within  his  trap, 

28 


The  Engineer  29 

Keen-eyed  and  stern  as  Rodney's  self, 

His  mind  serene  and  clear, 
The  battleship's  intelligence, 

The  silent  Engineer. 

A  thousand  busy,  clicking  valves 

Are  here  beneath  his  eye. 
How  every  shaft  is  silver-bright ! 

How  swift  the  pistons  fly ! 
The  dynamos  are  humming  loud, 

And  every  note  sings  clear 
To  him  who  dies  without  a  fight, 

The  prisoned  Engineer. 


MISSING  AT  LLOYD'S 

ARCH  and  gusset  and  sturdy  truss 
Riveted  strong  and  true. 
Plates  as  firm  as  the  hoary  rocks 

Dipping  beneath  the  blue. 
Spinning  turbine  and  shining  shaft, 

Piston  and  dynamo! 
With  a  laugh  at  the  snoring  blast 
Into  the  seas  we  go. 

Swift  and  stern  from  the  nor '-nor '-west 

Riots  the  savage  gale. 
Never  a  sailor's  eye  is  dimmed 

Never  a  cheek  is  pale. 
We  are  strong,  and  the  bunkers  full, 

Winds  of  the  world  may  blow. 
Brave  are  the  men  on  the  for'ard  bridge, 

Bold  are  the  men  below. 

Night,  and  a  driving,  hissing  snow 

Dulling  the  lamps  a-port. 
Night,  and  a  million  mocking  waves, 

Wild  in  their  demon  sport. 

30 


Missing  at  Lloyd's  31 

Spindrift  whiriing  above  the  bridge, 

Ice  on  the  plates  below. 
We  are  strong,  and  the  bunkers  full. 

Winds  of  the  world  may  blow. 

Phosphor's  light  on  the  raving  sea 

Giving  us  ghostly  cheer! 
Reeling,  staggering,  nor'-nor'-west 

Into  the  gale  we  steer. 
Arch  and  rivet  and  truss  give  way, 

Turbine  and  piston  cease. 
Slanting  decks  and  a  rocket  light ! 

Death — and  the  hills  of  peace. 


CAPTAINS  COURAGEOUS 

NOW  rest  thee,  Olav  Trygvason, 
In  grim  Valhalla's  halls. 
Now  rest  thee  with  the  hero  dead 

Till  Gabriel's  trumpet  calls. 
Bold  Viking  of  the  yellow  locks, 
With  dauntless  eyes  and  true, 
I  mark  thee  in  thy  battleship 
Surging  across  the  blue. 

Now  rest  thee  well,  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Thy  mariners  and  thee. 
The  King  in  old  Dunfermline  town 

Has  marked  thy  loyalty. 
How  fierce  the  blast,  how  stern  the  wave, 

How  wild  the  starless  night. 
But  ocean  could  not  dim  thy  fame 

Or  mock  thee  in  the  fight. 

Sir  Richard  Grenville,  rest  thee  well, 

Old  hero  of  the  main. 
One  ship  against  the  fifty-three 

Which  owned  the  flag  of  Spain. 

32 


Captains  Courageous  33 

Thy  deeds  are  singing  through  the  years, 

Thy  port  was  bold  and  free. 
Now  rest  thee,  till  the  Angel  stands 

Upon  the  shuddering  sea. 

And  Drake  and  Nelson,  rest  ye  well, 

Companioned  with  the  dead. 
Bold  paladins  who  took  to  sea 

The  fluttering  cross  of  red. 
Who  trod  the  slanting  quarter-deck 

With  spirits  bold  and  high, 
And  in  the  light  of  duty  done 

Went  smiling  forth,  to  die. 

3 


THE  NEREID,  ITALIAN  NAVAL 

SERVICE 

THE  Nereid  fails  us  in  the  rise, 
Burns  out  an  armature. 
We  turn,  with  terror  in  our  eyes 

The  deadly  hurt  to  cure. 
None  but  a  fool  would  pray  or  weep, 

Here  in  the  greenish  gloom. 
For  we  are  lying  fathoms  deep 
All  in  a  rounded  tomb. 

In  sweat  and  weariness  we  moil, 

With  bolt,  and  bar,  and  wrench. 
Time  is  the  master  of  the  toil 

And  whips  us  to  the  bench. 
The  wires  are  long,  the  winding  slow, 

And  half  the  air  is  done. 
We  are  the  men  who  used  to  know 

The  Adriatic  sun. 

Three  days  and  nights  the  hungry  drills 
Go  plunging  through  the  steel, 

Three  days  and  nights  the  hammer  trills, 
Three  days  the  wires  we  reel. 

34 


The  Nereid,  Italian  Naval  Service  35 

Antonio  is  stark  and  cold, 

Blithe  Giacomo  raves, 
And  still  we  labour  hard  to  mould 

This  paragon  of  graves. 

The  Captain,  on  the  rim  of  death, 

Has  thrown  the  switch-bar  home. 
The  dynamo's  soft  purring  breath 

Sings  of  the  girls  in  Rome. 
Then  up,  and  up,  through  seas  of  dread, 

Unconquered  yet  we  rise. 
Until  a  sunny  world  is  spread 

Before  our  hungry  eyes. 


ONLY  THREE 

WE  read  how  the  Dafodil  shook 
When  the  sneaking  torpedo  got  home, 
Of  her  Hst,  and  her  pitiful  look 
In  the  whorl  of  a  tempest  of  foam. 

We  read  how  the  boats  got  away 
As  the  Daffodil  plunged  to  her  rest, 

In  the  freshening  gale  of  the  day 
On  the  long  billow's  sickening  crest. 

We  read  of  the  cargo  she  bore, 

And  of  what  the  good  Daffodil  cost, 

And  we  read  one  cold  sentence  the  more, 
That  only  three  persons  were  lost. 

A  trivial  thing  it  appears 

In  a  time  of  black  murder  at  sea. 

But  tell  me,  O  beautiful  years, 
The  cost  of  it  all — to  the  Three. 


36 


THE   ROVER 

CREAKING  masts  and  the  gale  in  sport. 
Clouds,  and  a  misty  sun. 
Petrels  skimming  away  to  port. 
Reefs,  and  my  watch  begun. 
Smartly  now  be  the  royals  stowed ! 
Mary,  Spring,  and  the  Brighton  Road! 

Streaks  of  grey  on  the  seaman's  grave, 

Never  a  star  in  sight. 
Ghostly  flares  on  the  hissing  wave, 

Pale  in  the  savage  night. 
One  swift,  billowy  picture  showed 
Hawthorn  bloom  on  the  Brighton  Road! 

Parted  sheets  and  the  sails  a-slat, 

Breakers  upon  our  lee. 
Oh  for  land,  were  it  only  that 

Under  the  gallows  tree! 
And  I  go  to  my  long  abode. 

One  last  kiss  to  the  Brighton  Road ! 


37 


A  WARDROOM  SONG 

THE  savage  winds  of  winter  blow 
And  raise  the  billows  high. 
Along  the  valleys  darkly  green 

The  Mother  Careys  fly. 
But,  though  the  spray  is  in  our  eyes, 

The  salt  spume  on  our  lips, 
And  though  the  Bully  Ruffian  rolls 

Until  the  taffrail  dips 
Who  cares  ?  Who  cares  ?  The  gales  are  Free 
And  'tis  an  honest  British  sea! 


38 


THE   NEW  BIRTH 

THE  Saucy  Arethusa  dies, 
Her  grave,  the  tumbling  sea. 
Her  spirit  is  in  port  again 

And  waits  for  what  must  be, 
Another  armour,  stronger  yet,  f 
■   Another  battery ! 


39 


TRAFALGAR,   OCT.  21,  1805 

SOU '-sou '-west  is  the  failing  breeze 
Loitering  here  with  the  lazy  seas. 
Stuns'ls,  royals,  are  weather  grey, 
But  they  can  give  us  steering  way. 
Load,  my  lads,  ere  the  wind  be  gone, 
For  the  Frenchman,  the  courtly  Don. 
Double-shot  for  a  double  foe ! 
Think  of  the  girls  on  Plymouth  Hoe! 

Back  and  forth  in  the  Middle  Sea, 
Egypt,  Naples  and  Sicily, 
Fifty  times  we  stood  off  and  on. 
(There  was  a  bullet  to  chew  upon !) 
But  to  miss  it,  the  shifty  fleet 
Passing  The  Rock  with  hasty  feet 
Off  to  the  Indies,  tack  by  tack. 
But  we  followed  and  chased  them  back. 

See  to  your  priming.     Keep  it  dry. 
Forty-six  of  'em  yonder  lie. 
Curse  the  breeze !     It  is  almost  done. 
Whistle  now,  every  mother's  son. 

40 


Trafalgar,  Oct.  21,   1805        41 

See  the  Admiral's  happy  smile. 
Cheer,  ye  lubbers !     Another  mile, 
Then  to  pay  for  the  months  of  chase, 
Pay  on  the  nail,  with  grape  and  case. 

Hold  your  ranks.     Not  a  single  change! 
Down !     The  enemy  has  the  range. 
Steady,  lads,  though  the  blocks  may  fall, 
Nelson  sees  you  and  Iqves  you  all. 
Hardy  laughs  while  the  splinters  fly. 
Not  a  gun,  till  we're  wearing  by. 
Stand.     God  bless  ye,  the  time  is  near. 
Hard-a-starboard !     Now,  damme,  cheer! 

See  the  plight  of  the  Temeraire, 
Never  a  sail  to  catch  the  air ! 
Fighting  still  with  a  shattered  crew. 
Gunnery  smoke  wreaths  on  the  blue. 
Look  at  the  Vanguard,  missing  stays ! 
Look  at  the  Victory's  broadside  blaze. 
Double-shot  for  a  double  foe. 
That  for  England,  and  Plymouth  Hoe! 

Sou'-sou'-west  is  the  freshening  gale. 
But  the  Admiral,  cold  and  pale. 
Lies  a  corse  in  his  weary  ship. 
Still  the  enemy's  colours  dip. 


42        Trafalgar,  Oct.  21,   1805 

Still  the  boarders  go  leaping  by, 
Pistol  ready  and  cutlass  high. 
Victory !     But  we  see  afar 
Old  Saint  Paul's  and  a  funeral  car. 


THEN  AND  NOW 

A   SONG  OF  ADVENTURE  LUST 

THERE  on  the  surly  gallows  tree 
Upraised  upon  a  dreadful  hill, 
The  blackened  highwayman  we  see 
Who  rode  abroad  with  pistols  three 
The  baronet  to  kill. 

Bold  robbers  lurked  in  frightful  lanes, 

And  swords  outleaped  in  every  street, 
For  in  the  cities  and  the  plains 
Security  was  hedged  with  pains, 
And  traps  allured  the  feet. 

So,  dazzled  with  the  flare  of  life. 

Men  heard  the  monastery  bell. 
From  rapier  point,  from  robber's  knife, 
From  roar  of  trumpet,  drum  and  fife, 
They  sought  the  quiet  cell. 

But  we  had  made  the  busy  world 
An  Abbey,  safe  for  man  or  maid. 

43 


44  Then  and  Now 

From  joy  to  joy  we  gaily  whirled, 
And  even  battle-flags  were  furled, 
And  rusty  was  the  blade. 

The  thrust  en  quart  no  gentle  knew 
We  laughed  at  Benvenuto's  skill. 
Safety  was  common  as  the  dew, 
Or  as  the  mounting  summer  blue 
Above  a  northern  hill. 

So  when  the  bugle's  brazen  notes 
Sounded  the  call  to  bloody  fight, 

A  sudden  cheer  was  in  our  throats. 

Our  one  Adventure — casting  votes — 
Was  trivial  and  light. 

We  sought  the  plains  of  Picardie 
As  Brother  Bernard  sought  the  cell, 

Weary  of  our  security. 

And  if  we  fall,  that  men  be  free, 
God  rest  us.     All  is  well. 


UNDER  THE  BLACK  EAGLE 

EYES  looked  to  hazel  eyes, 
Soul  spake  to  soul. 
Love  was  their  high  emprise, 

Love  was  their  goal. 
Love  was  their  night  and  noon, 
Under  the  August  moon.' 

Then  came  the  raging  foe, 

Hot  with  desire. 
Such  a  red  tide  to  flow ! 

Rapine  and  fire 
Over  love's  garden  plot, 
Over  the  lovers'  cot. 

She  who  was  still  a  bride 

Gallantly  stayed. 
Sinking  her  Belgian  pride, 

Lent  her  sweet  aid. 
Giving  the  wounded  cheer, 
Hiding  a  world  of  fear. 


^t) 


Still  rose  the  fiery  wave, 
Scarlet  and  black. 

Louvain  was  but  a  grave, 
Namur  a  wrack. 
45 


46         Under  the  Black  Haggle 


t>' 


Then  was  her  husband  found 
Prisoned  and  basely  bound. 

Slowly  the  gentle  bride, 

Hope  is  so  brief, 
Faded.     Alas,  and  died, 

Crushed  by  her  grief. 
Still  her  adorer  stands 
Helpless  in  alien  lands. 

Eyes  look  to  sightless  eyes. 

Soul  speaks  to  soul. 
Still,  though  a  woman  dies, 

Love  is  her  goal. 
Over  her  grave,  the  snows. 
And  the  red  tide  still  flows! 

The  Honourable  Dr.  Henri  Severin  B^land,  M.P.  for 
Beauce,  and  formerly  Postmaster-General  of  Canada  was 
married  in  19 13  to  a  Belgian  lady  of  high  rank.  When  war 
was  declared,  Dr.  and  Mme.  Beland  were  living  in  a 
chateau  not  far  from  Li^ge.  They  gave  up  their  home  to 
the  wounded,  serving  them  as  surgeon  and  nurse,  respec- 
tively, and  remained  until  after  the  place  was  captured  by 
the  Germans.  For  a  time  the  invaders  respected  their 
status  as  non-combatant  Red  Cross  workers,  but  discover- 
ing Dr.  B61and's  Canadian  citizenship  and  standing,  they 
took  him  prisoner  and  removed  him  to  Germany,  com- 
pelling his  wife  to  remain  in  Belgium  under  supervision. 
Early  in  19 17,  worn  out  by  toil  and  anxiety,  Mme.  Beland 
died. 


A  SONG  OF  ROMANCE 

MEN  of  Cregy  plied  the  bow 
Fashioned  from  the  springing  yew. 
Fiercely  fled  the  humming  shaft 

Black  against  the  Norman  blue. 
English  archery  is  done. 

Hauberks  are  a  heap  of  rust. 
Bows  are  broke,  and  arrows  flown, 

Men  of  Cregy,  ye  are  dust. 
Still  to  us  in  newer  lands 
'Mid  the  stars  our  England  stands 

Winds  that  sweep  the  English  downs 

Kiss  the  churchyard  elms,  and  sigh 
O'er  the  venerable  elder  graves 

Where  the  men  of  Cregy  lie. 
Then  on  Windsor's  turret-top 

Spread  the  banner,  rich  and  fair. 
Sister  winds  of  British  breed 

Spread  it  in  our  Northern  air, 
For  to  us  in  newer  lands 

'Mid  the  stars  our  England  stands. 

47 


48  A  Song-  of  Romance 


Hoary  billows  of  the  main, 

Once  the  fighting  Temeraire 
Bowled  a-past  the  Pyrenees, 

Royals  set  and  drawing  fair. 
All  your  rage  she  heeded  not, 

O'er  the  hissing  waves  she  ran. 
Bold  and  high,  the  sailor-cheer 

When  the  starboard  guns  began. 
Nelson,  Jervis,  Collingwood, 
'Mid  the  stars  their  England  stood. 

Look,  ye  billows !  Prows  of  steel, 

Thunder  giants  cold  and  grim, 
Rushing  on,  fleet-footed  ghosts. 

To  the  far  horizon's  rim! 
Lightning  sleeping  in  the  hold, 

Empires  in  the  forward  gun, 
And  Saint  George's  Cross  of  red 

Gleaming  in  the  morning  sun. 
Seas,  rejoice  and  clap  your  hands, 
'Mid  the  stars  your  England  stands. 

Not  the  spring  of  English  yew, 
Not  the  smoke  of  screaming  shell, 

Armoured  deck  or  conning  tower. 
Not  in  these  our  hopes  may  dwell. 


A  Song  of  Romance  49 

What  are  turret-crowns  of  might 
Driving,  plunging  through  the  seas? 
Less  than  nought,  if  Freedom  fail, 

Sacrificed  to  sodden  ease. 
Break  the  soft  and  silken  bands! 
'Mid  the  stars  our  England  stands. 

Liberty,  the  shining  maid, 

Knows  the  scent  of  Surrey  thorn, 
Knows  the  mellow  Austral  air, 

Knows  the  purple  Afric  morn. 
'Neath  the  palms  she  takes  her  way, 

'Neath  the  pines  on  tor  and  fell. 
In  the  storied  East  she  walks, 

Hears  the  jingling  camel-bell. 
Wreathe  the  bay  with  loving  hands. 
'Mid  the  stars  our  England  stands. 


KING    EDWARD    THE    SEVENTH 

(Died,  May  6,  1910) 

LONELY  upon  the  hill,  a  regal  pine 
Mourns  to  the  passing  gale, 
And  the  white  birches  wreathed  in  columbine 

Tell  to  the  stars  the  tale. 
The  orange  trees  are  bending  to  the  ground, 

The  palm  is  drooping  low, 
And  minute  guns  in  sullen  anguish  sound 
Where'er  the  Flag  may  go. 

The  sea,  that  sevenfold  mystery  of  blue, 

Tosses  its  locks  of  white. 
Scatters  abroad  its  tears,  a  briny  dew 

Of  diamonds  in  the  light ; 
Sobs  to  the  galleons  upon  the  wave 

Trailing  the  Cross  of  red, 
"Our  Master  leaves  us  for  the  solemn  grave. 

Our  Lord,  the  King,  is  dead. " 


The  Norfolk  thorn  is  white  with  odorous 
may. 
The  larks  their  anthem  sing. 

50 


King  Edward  the  Seventh      51 

The  temple  gongs  of  Jaipur  and  Bombay 

In  sweet  discordance  ring. 
Canadian  lilies  of  the  woodland  dells 

Drink  in  the  springtime  rains. 
Flocks  graze  behind  the  silver  wether  bells 

On  the  Australian  plains. 

And  here,  and  everywhere,  the  Flag  droops  low 

Mournful  from  every  mast. 
Upon  the  holy  Ganges,  broad  and  slow, 

The  shade  of  it  is  cast, 
While  from  the  organs  of  a  thousand  fanes 

Rumbling  in  vaulted  arch 
The  world  has  caught  the  sad,  but  kingly 
strain 

Of  Requiem  and  March. 

He  that  was  King  is  dust,  and  Time  rolls  on 

Bringing  the  roar  of  strife. 
The  Empire  stands,   and  in  the  light  that 
shone 

Prom  Royal  Edward's  life, 
We  scan — though  dimly  yet — the  Thousand 
Years, 

The  wonder-time  of  Peace 
When  men  will  put  away  their  petty  fears 

And  the  mad  drums  may  cease. 


PEACE  AND   WAR 

A  PLEASANT  river,  clear  and  blue, 
Went  singing  to  the  sea. 
The  sunbeams  joined  them  hand  in  hand 

To  dance  the  melody. 
The  courtly  rushes  bowed  their  heads 

As  nobles  to  the  Queen, 
And  saw,  reflected  in  the  wave. 
Their  coats  of  Lincoln  green. 

Into  this  crystal  flood  of  loveliness 

Were  poured  the  scourings  of  a  filthy  town. 

The  bloody  entrails  of  unnumbered  swine, 

Foul  carrion,  infinity  of  dung. 

Food,  gone  to  rottenness  unspeakable. 

And  on  the  surface  of  the  thickening  stream 

Dead  dogs,  all  stewing  in  the  summer  sun, 

Made  an  obscene  and  measured  pilgrimage. 

But  Fools  who  paced  the  noisome  bank 

Declared:  ''It  must  be  so. 
God  made  the  sewers  of  the  world 

And  regulates  their  flow, 

52 


Peace  and  War  53 

That  we,  His  sons,  might  steel  our  souls 

To  arduous  endeavour 
And  walk  unf righted  in  the  stench 

Forever  and  forever." 


God  made  such  horrors?     Count  that  word  a 

lie. 
God  made  the  pleasant  river,  clear  and  blue. 
Peace  is  His  handiwork,  and  love,  and  joy, 
While  man  makes  sewers — and  artillery. 
Grim  bayonets  and  howi'tzers  and  shell. 
The    battle-squadron    surging    through    the 

tides. 
Ten  thousand  hecatombs  of  reeking  red 
And  all  the  vile  magnificence  of  War. 


THE   BROTHERHOOD 

YOUR  British  Isles,  my  Shakespeare? 
Yea,  but  not  yours  alone! 
Far  bugles  singing  softly  clear, 
Where  June  is  winter,  meet  mine  ear, 
And  where  the  May  time  tempests  moan. 

Your  British  Isles,  my  Milton  sweet? 

Yea,  but  not  yours  alone! 
The  drum's  insistent  roaring  beat 
In  every  broad  Canadian  street 

Has  pride  and  fervour  in  its  tone. 

Your  Chelsea,  0  my  brave  Carlyle? 

Yea,  but  not  yours  alone! 
In  every  soft  Pacific  isle. 
In  every  Indian  temple-pile. 

The  bold  St.  George  is  loved  and  known. 

Your  Holyrood,  my  Waverley? 

Yea,  but  not  yours  alone! 
For  every  mermaid  in  the  sea 
Sings  of  the  ensign,  ruffling  free, 

In  soft  and  tender  monotone. 

54 


The  Brotherhood  55 

Your  sons  are  'neath  the  Flemish  sod. 

Yea,  but  not  yours  alone! 
Brothers  are  we,  beneath  the  rod, 
Brothers  we  fight  before  our  God, 

Brothers  beneath  the  churchyard  stone. 


ET  NUNC,  REGES,  INTELLIGITE 

IN  morions  and  helms  of  brass 
The  men  of  psalmody  and  might 
Had  slain  a  King  who  sought  to  pass 

Between  Old  England  and  her  right, 
Taking,  while  angry  war-drums  roared, 
The  surly  vengeance  of  the  sword. 

They  struck  a  medal  in  their  pride. 

Around  the  rim  a  motto  ran. 
Since  only  Justice  may  abide, 

Since  Freedom  is  the  hope  of  man, 
Since  Tyranny,  in  curls,  was  dead, 
"And  now,  ye  Kings,  be  wise!"  it  read. 

Another  King  stood  forth  to  die. 

And  other  drums  roared  loud  and  deep, 

For  purple  Royalty  was  high, 

And  France  was  mad  and  life  was  cheap. 

Pale  courtiers  saw  with  shuddering  dread, 

September  sabres  dripping  red. 

Once  more  the  world  is  torn  with  hate 
For  Majesty  has  played  the  fool. 

56 


Et  Nunc,  Reges,  Intelligite      57 

He  fouls  his  honour  to  be  great, 

And  carrion  poisons  every  pool. 
Now  bayonets  gleam  on  every  plain. 
Be  wise,  ye  Kings,  your  crowns  are  vain. 


THE   MOTHER 

HE  freely  gave  his  life,  they  say, 
Life,  sweeter  than  a  dewy  field, 
Fresh  as  a  cloudless  April  day. 
But  was  it  only  his  to  yield  ? 

Once  it  was  mine,  and  only  mine. 

I  trembled  with  a  thousand  fears, 
Tasting  the  wormwood  in  the  wine, 

Singing  Magnificat  with  tears. 

Once  it  was  mine,  that  sacred  spark, 
Scarce  could  I  leave  his  cot  to  rest. 

How  I  remember,  in  the  dark, 
Those  baby  fingers  on  my  breast ! 

He  marched  with  gladness  to  the  fray. 

He  met  the  foe.     His  head  was  high. 
But,  since  that  hard,  relentless  day, 

His  flesh  and  mine  in  Flanders  lie. 


58 


GARRULOUS   CRITICS 

THEY  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  their  bayonets  turning." 
And  the  hearts  of  those  who  had  lost  the  fight 

With  anger  and  grief  were  burning. 
They  had  done  their  best  when  the  guns 
engaged, 
That  pitiful  corps  in  red, 
But  the  wisest  officer  wept  and  raged 
When  he  heard  what  London  said. 

The  ships,  with  the  frigates  scattered  free, 

Tacked  out  from  the  coast  of  Spain, 
And  searched  to  the  Caribbean  Sea 

Then  scouted  back  again. 
"Gad,  gentlemen,  but  the  hunt  goes  wide!" 

Said  the  one-armed  thoroughbred. 
But  the  joy  of  his  soul  had  almost  died 

When  he  learned  what  London  said. 

Our  men  are  proved.     They  have  played  the 
game 
As  it  never  was  played  before, 

59 


6o  Garrulous  Critics 

From  Haig  to  Corporal  What's-His-Name 
They  have  fought,  and  called  for  more. 

The  soldiers,  camped  in  a  slimy  land, 
And  the  sailors.  Viking-bred, 

Pinned  down  the  foe  with  relentless  hand 
But  wept  at  what  London  said. 


THE   ZEPPELIN 

THE    sacristy  was  trimmed  with  orange 
bloom. 
The  memory  of  incense  floated  faint 
About  the  altar.     In  the  holy  gloom 

A  lamp  was  hung  before  a  placid  saint, 
A  red  lamp,  burning  everlastingly. 

The  priestly  monotone,  the  bride's  reply, 
Soft  with  the  sweet  timidity  of  love ! 

The  bridegroom's  light  caress,  the  answering 
sigh! 
A  golden  circlet  and  a  crumpled  glove. 

Thus,  thus  they  launched  them  on  a  misty  sea. 

The  evening  firelight  glanced  upon  their  eyes. 

They  sat,  divining,  by  the  yellow  flame, 
Seeing  long  years  of  joy;  a  richer  prize. 

Fair  children  to  perpetuate  a  name 
To  the  far  limits  of  Eternity. 

6i 


62  The  Zeppelin 

One  sudden  blaze  of  Hell,  one  roaring  blast! 

The  devil  laughter  of  a  coward  foe! 
Then  dreams  and  love  and  life  itself  are  past. 

What  fool  can  say  that  God  would  have 
it  so, 
Our  God,  who  made  the  flowers  and  the  sea  ? 


LORD   KITCHENER 

MEN  say  he  died,  and  tears  of  anger  bum 
The    leathern    cheek    of    soldier    and 
marine. 
Men  say  he  died.     Into  St.  Paul's  they  turn, 
Workman  and   Baron,   parlour-maid   and 
Queen, 
And  waves  of  prayer  and  billows  of  sweet 

sound 
■    Rise  to  the  topmost  circle  of  the  dome. 
And  yet  no  urn,  no  grassy  churchyard  mound, 
May  mark  the  hero's  everlasting  home. 

Men  say  he  died,  but  Marlborough  is  alive. 

The  lads  of  Fontenoy  are  marching  yet. 
The  Minden  regiments  are  wont  to  strive. 

In  Torres  Vedras  Wellington  is  set. 
They  live,  these  heroes,  and  they  never  tire 

Of  whispering  in  the  youngling  Private's 
ear 
Telling  him  tales  of  pride  and  British  fire 

Till  countless  wonders  in  his  deeds  appear. 

63 


64  Lord  Kitchener 

Deep  in  the  ocean's  blue  infinity 

That  soldier  body  has  been  doomed  to  lie. 
In  English  caverns  of  the  English  sea 

Ten  thousand  sons  of  Admiralty  cry: 
' '  No  more  we  come  with  cutlasses  in  hand 

To  teach  the  foe  what  red  revenge  may  be, 
But  we,  and  Kitchener,  can  understand 

The  luxury  of  dying  to  be  free. " 


THE   PARTING 

HER  cavalier  in  boots  and  spurs 
By  the  Niagara  stream, 
Drank  of  the  stirrup  cup  and  said : 

"This,  dearest,  is  my  dream. 
That  you  may  be  a  bride  to  me 

Within  our  cottage  walls. 
One  last  embrace,  O  soul  of  mine, 
The  cruel  trumpet  calls." 

The  maiden's  lips  were  deathly  white. 

She  would  not  bid  him  stay. 
She  smiled  upon  her  cavalier 

Whom  Honour  called  away. 
And  though  the  dread  of  battle  gripped 

That  loyal,  tender  heart, 
She  bore  her  proud  and  soldierly, 

Since  he  must  needs  depart. 

O  cavalier,  in  boots  and  spurs, 

The  Flemish  fields  are  red. 
And  many  a  belted  subaltern 

The  same  Good-Bye  has  said. 
s  65 


66  The  Parting 

But  if  you  ride  afar  to  death 
— So  you  be  true  and  brave 


The  memory  of  an  endless  love 
Is  deeper  than  the  grave. 


DISMOUNTED 

OUR  cavalry  spurs  are  red  with  rust 
And  our  bridle  arm  is  stale, 
We  can  but  dream  of  the  cut  and  thrust, 
Of  the  flying  charge  or  the  sabre  lust. 
And  never  a  cavalry  trumpet-gust 
Goes  shrilling  upon  the  gale. 

But  the  Light  Hussars  when  the  night  is 
grey 

Will  be  over  the  bloody  bank, 
For  the  bayonet  is  the  tool  today 
(And  a  dozen  bombs  on  a  little  tray), 
And  we  tramp  as  infantry  through  the  clay 

With  the  Fifteenth  on  our  flank. 

But  the  eyes  of  the  marching  Light  Hussar 

Will  shine  in  the  roaring  fray, 
And  many  a  maiden  near  and  far 
Will  sigh  for  the  yellow  stripe  and  bar. 
They  know  what  the  jingling  troopers  are 

And  what  beautiful  things  they  say. 


67 


IN   THE   CRUCIBLE 

THE  world  was  filthy  in  its  Maker's  eyes. 
Sink-holes  of  tyranny  and  wells  of  greed, 
Mountains  of  self  and  pyramids  of  lies, 

With  robber  barons  camped  on  every  mead ! 
The  world  was  filthy,  'neath  a  heavenly  sun. 
Rivers  of  hate  and  stinking  pools  of  pride! 
But  now  the  day  of  cleansing  has  begun. 
The  fiery  blast  of  war  is  sweeping  wide. 

False  cleverness  and  reeking  forms  of  Art 

The  springs  of  love  and  reverence  defiled. 
God  was  an  empty  name,  and  on  the  mart 

A  crew  of  swindlers  other  thieves  beguiled. 
And  there  were  slums,  unutterably  foul, 
And  maids  were  bought  to  feed  the  fauns' 
desire. 
And    Kings    sowed    dragons'    teeth.     Now 
cannon  growl 
And  full-armed  men  have  filled  the  world 
with  fire. 

68 


In  the  Crucible  69 

Then   hail,   red   War!     A   welcome,    bloody 
strife, 

If  in  the  flame  our  sins  be  burned  away, 
If  w^e  may  find  a  wiser,  cleaner  life. 

Wholesome  and  brotherly  in  this  our  day. 
If  bonds  hold  true,  if  Freedom  may  arise. 

Her  snow-white  banner  gallantly  unfurled. 
Then  welcome.  War,  and  all  its  fierce  emprise, 

The  cleansing  flame,  so  it  refine  the  world. 


A  SONG  OF  THE   FLAG 

UNFURL  the  noble  Union  Jack, 
Fling  it  upon  the  breeze, 
The  Flag  of  every  watery  track 

In  seven  briny  seas! 
It  knows,  and  loves,  and  understands 

The  gales  of  Singapore, 
The  breath  of  half  a  hundred  lands 
From  Dawson  to  Lahore. 

Unfurl  the  noble  Union  Jack! 

Oft  in  the  ancient  night 
It  waved  above  the  hideous  wrack 

Of  many  a  raging  fight, 
When  tyrants  left  the  world  appalled. 

When  Freedom  was  unknown, 
That  fair  device  of  heroes  called 

As  with  a  clarion  tone. 

Unfurl  the  Flag  of  our  delight, 

St.  George's  cross  of  red, 
St.  Andrew's  and  St.  Patrick's  white, 

The  treasure  of  our  Dead ! 

70 


A  Song  of  the  Flag  71 

In  half  a  hundred  weary  lands 

Their  bones  forever  lie, 
But  every  soldier  spirit  stands 

To  see  the  Flag  go  by. 


FOR   DOMINION   DAY 

NOT  for  the  lakes  of  glancing  blue 
I  love  this  land  of  mine, 
Not  for  the  dark  Laurentian  streams 

Be-rimmed  with  spruce  and  pine, 
Not  for  the  blushing  winter  peaks 
Where  snows  forever  shine! 

Rich  are  the  fields ;  but  not  for  gold 

Of  wheat  or  dazzling  ore, 
And  not  for  silver  fisheries 

Mv  land  would  I  adore. 
(Could  I  forget  my  lady's  kiss 

To  count  her  worldly  store?) 

Nay.     Were  my  land  a  wilderness, 

Still  here  would  I  abide. 
It  is  the  soul  of  Canada 

That  lifts  my  head  in  pride. 
Mother  of  half-a-million  men 

Who  Tyranny  defied. 


72 


BILLY 

NO  cheek  so  fair,  no  eye  so  bright, 
But  they  are  veiled  in  misty  night. 
No  tongue  so  brave,  no  lyric  throat, 
But  Death  stills  every  ringing  note. 

Alas,  my  friend!     He  fell  too  soon 
Beneath  the  ghastly  Flemish  moon, 
But  praised  be  God,  he  is  not  dead 
Upon  the  coward's  ivory  bed! 

For  what  he  might  have  been,  I  weep, 
Deep  calling  unto  soundless  deep. 
For  what  he  was,  ere  yet  he  died. 
My  soul  may  sweep  the  stars  with  pride. 


7^ 


THE   QUESTION 

WHAT  can  I  do  for  thee,  Flag  of  my  soul? 
Fight  upon  land  or  sea,  while  the 
drums  roll, 
While  the  shrill  bugle-call  flames  in  the  air, 
Willing  to  stand  or  fall,  willing  to  dare! 

What  can  I  do  for  thee,  Banner  of  mine? 
They  have  rejected  me.     Youth  makes  the 

line. 
Others  may  serve  the  guns.     Here  I  remain 
While  my  heroic  sons  redden  the  plain! 

What  can  I  do  for  thee.  Flag  I  adore? 
This.     I  can  strive  to  be  worthy  the  more. 
Giving  the  share  that  a  patriot  must, 
Breathing  a  prayer  for  the  men  who  are  dust ! 


74 


THE   AMERICAN   AVIATOR 

FULL  brother  to  the  Matterhorn 
I  ride  the  upper  airs. 
I  see  on  each  celestial  morn 

The  blush  the  cloud-bank  wears. 
I  pass  the  vulture  and  the  kite 

Above  the  battle  hung, 
And  little  shrapnel  puffs  of  white 
Across  my  course  are  flung. 

But  yesterday  I  rowed  for  Yale. 

They  said  my  hfe  was  marred. 
(Loud  is  the  laughter  of  the  gale!) 

In  Physics  I  was  "starred." 
Perhaps  they  think  of  me  this  morn 

One  rummy  of  the  crew, 
Full  brother  to  the  Matterhorn, 

A  sword-point  in  the  blue. 


75 


THE   OLD-TIME   COLOUR 

DOES  any  one  think  of  "the  thin,  red  line " 
In  these  days  of  muddy  brown? 
Have  we  quite  forgotten  the  tunic  fine 

That  shone  in  the  dullest  town? 
It  has  blazed  all  over  a  quarrelsome  earth, 

It  never  was  far  to  seek, 
The  red,  red  coat  with  the  pipe-clay  girth 
From  Plassey  to  old  Fish  Creek. 

But  though  the  scarlet  should  disappear 

And  never  again  come  back, 
There's  enough  of  the  blessed  hue  to  cheer 

In  the  fluttering  Union  Jack. 
It  speaks  of  a  thousand  years  of  fight, 

With  never  a  time  to  rest. 
Of  a  million  men  gone  into  the  Night 

For  the  Islands  of  the  Blest. 


76 


s 


OF  WALKING   SOLDIERLY 

HOULD  I  depart,  0  lady  mine, 

To  give  my  body  to  the  King, 
Leaving  my  cup  of  heavenly  wine, 

Those  eyes,  and  hope's  imagining, 
Hold  high  and  proud  thy  stately  head 

And  veil  thy  glorious  grief  a  while, 
Restrain  the  swelling  tides  of  dread, 

Give  me  the  tribute  of  a  smile 


Le. 


And  I  shall  understand,  my  dear. 

And  keep  thee  closer  in  my  heart, 
Though  not  a  tremor,  not  a  tear 

Betray  thine  anguish  as  we  part. 
We  are  Canadians,  lady  mine, 

With  heroism  in  our  veins. 
Our  noble  brothers  of  the  Line 

Go  singing  on  the  Flemish  plains. 


11 


THE   FRUITAGE 

HERE  in  a  festering  heap  of  earth 
A  bulbous  treasure  hes. 
"Dead!"  say  the  fools  in  high  disdain, 

"Dead!"  cry  the  worldly-wise. 
But  April,  through  her  sunny  tears, 
Will  see  the  lily  rise. 

Dead,  on  a  putrid  Flemish  plain, 

And  mangled  by  a  shell. 
"The  end,  the  end!"  say  fools  and  blind. 

Not  so!  For  all  is  well, 
And  Liberty  will  blossom  like 

The  lily  of  the  dell. 


78 


THE   CHILDREN 

THERE  is  no  music  of  the  viol,  of  mellow 
horn,  or  limpid  flute. 
No  tone  of  organ,  billowy  harp,  or  softly 

serenading  lute 
So  sweet,  so  grateful  and  so  mild 
As  the  free  laughter  of  a  child. 

Our  savage  enemies,  in  grim  obedience  to  a 

Vandal's  nod. 
Would  rise  and  slay  the  cherubim  hard  by  the 

Paradise  of  God. 
How  could  they  spare  in  their  red  heat 
The  laughing  children  on  the  street? 


7$ 


IRONY 

OUT  of  the  hills'  eternal  store 
We  brought  the  gift  of  God, 
The  orange  drifts  of  iron  ore 
Long  hid  beneath  the  sod. 
From  rocks  as  old  as  Night  and  Hell 

Green-crusted  copper  came. 
We  forged  the  gun,  the  mine,  the  shell, 
And  praised  the  Maker's  name! 


80 


THE   REJECTED 

IN  the  blaze  of  the  battle  line 
Regiments  have  been  slain  for  me. 
Whole  ships'  companies,  friends  of  mine, 

Drift  and  drown  in  the  hungry  sea. 
Here  am  I  in  a  golden  land, 

Living  in  comfort,  clothed  and  shod. 
Am  I  worthy?     In  shame  I  stand 
Naked,  empty,  before  my  God. 


81 


A  SONNET  OF  PURPLE 

NOW  Beauty's  arm  displays  a  purple  zone. 
What  King  lies  regal  on  a  star-lit  bier  ? 
What  Prince  has  heard  the  elf-horn  whis- 
pering near, 
That  strange,  mysterious  and  awful  tone? 
For  Purple  speaks  of  royalty  alone, 
The  soft  insignia  of  a  queenly  tear, 
A  grim,  dark  palace,  infinitely  drear, 
A  whimpering  spaniel,  by  an  empty  throne. 

It  was  a  King.     His  torn  and  spattered  clay 
Still  shudders  at  the  cannon's  thunderous 
art. 
His  crown,  a  wreath  of  myrtle  and  of  bay. 
And  thus  ten  thousand  thousand  Kings 
depart. 
He  ruled  benign,  with  undisputed  sway, 
His   Presence   Room,— a   maiden's   noble 
heart. 


82 


LANGEMARCK 

OUR  soldiers  face  infernal  arts 
In  desolated  lands, 
A  song  of  Freedom  in  their  hearts, 
Our  honour  in  their  hands. 

God  save  them,  bred  of  noble  sires! 

The  proud  and  lustful  foe 
Has  heard  the  rolling  thunder-fires 

Of  their  Eternal  No  1 


83 


FLAG  DAY 

HERE  in  my  Belgian  flag 
The  gold  may  stand  for  shining  deeds 
Without  the  taint  of  brag. 

The  crimson  tincture  there 

May  speak  the  blood  of  noble  breeds, 
The  scars  they  proudly  wear. 

The  black — that  shadow  land 

Where  men  receive  their  well  won  meeds 
And  heroes  understand. 


84 


TO  CANADA 

WE  did  not  know  our  Canada, 
Her  spirit  and  her  pride, 
Her  passion  for  the  triple  cross 

That  floated  far  and  wide. 
Forgive  us  all,  dear  native  land, 

Now,  while  the  war  drums  roll. 
We  thought  that  craven  money-lust 
Had  shrivelled  up  your  soul. 


85 


LIFE 

IF  I  were  young"  said  Aunt  Mary, 
With  a  glance  at  the  boy,  and  a  long,  long 
sigh 
And  a  touch  of  dew  in  her  gentle  eye. 

"If  I  were  old"  said  the  boy 

With  a  whimper  over  his  porridge  dish, 

And  his  little  body  one  quivering  wish. 

* '  If  he  were  old  ? ' '  said  Aunt  Mary, 

With  a  shuddering  thought  of  the  battle  plain 

And  her  spirit  gripped  by  a  sudden  pain. 

"If  I  were  old!"  said  the  boy, 
Soon  as  the  porridge  dish  was  done, 
Marching  away  with  his  wooden  gun ! 


86 


TO   THE  ABSENT 

THE  music  thrills  to  my  very  bone, 
The  deep  bass  green  of  a  billowy  sea, 
The  willow  tints  of  the  tenor  tone, 
The  song  of  women,  like  spray,  to  me. 
Snow-pure,  from  the  wave-crest  flying  free. 

And  the  rhythmic  sweep  of  the  choral  hymn 
Sounds  like  the  beautiful  winter  waves 

That  beat  on  the  ocean's  sandy  rim 
And  sing  in  a  hundred  rocky  caves 
Their  requiem  over  Admirals'  graves. 

In  every  burst  of  the  blessed  song 
I  dream  of  an  airman  falcon-high. 

And  of  infantry  lads — for  the  list  is  long — 
Who  left  their  music  with  never  a  sigh 
And  marched  like  heroes,  ready  to  die. 

(Forty-seven  former  members  of  the  Toronto  Mendels- 
sohn Choir  are  on  active  service.  One  is  in  the  Royal 
Flying  Corps) 

87 


88  To  the  Absent 

Do  they  hear  in  the  deep-wrought  shivering 
clay, 
Or  in  the  spume  of  a  sullen  cloud, 

The  songs  they  knew  when  the  world  was  gay, 
The  bursts  of  harmony,  rich  and  loud. 
Do  they  see  the  beautiful,  eager  crowd? 

Libera  Me,  the  airman  sings, 

And  his  eyes  are  brimmed  with  a  soldier 
dew, 
The  shrapnel  whines  in  his  far- spread  wings 

As  he  circles  wide  in  the  wintry  blue. 

Libera  Me,  and  his  tones  are  true. 

In  die  ilia  tremenda  sounds 

From  a  surly  billet  in  Picardie, 

From  a  midnight  guard  on  his  weary  rounds. 
From  a  cruiser  staggering  through  the  sea. 
And  the  twoscore  gentlemen  fight  for  me ! 


THE   MINER 

ALL  through  the  mine,  deep,  darksome  and 
unkind, 
I  feel  the  throbbing  beat  of  enginery, 
Adown  black  corridors  an  outdoor  wind 

Brings  dreams  of  open  sky  and  foaming  sea. 
So,  gladsome  in  the  thought  of  field  and  wood, 
I  look  upon  my  toil  and  find  it  good. 

My  candle  glimmers  bravely  in  the  gloom. 

Reverberant  and  fearful  every  sound, 
And  shadow-forms,  like  ghosts  from  out  a 
tomb. 

Rise  menacing,  or  dart  along  the  ground. 
But  while  I  taste  this  air,  while  engines  beat, 
My  heart  is  singing,  and  my  life  is  sweet. 

Not  here  my  home,  a  thousand  fathoms  deep, 

Where  witches  mow,  and  gibbering  devils 

dance. 

Where  Vulcan  forges,  'neath  the  craggy  steep, 

His  rumbling  thunders  and  his  fiery  lance. 

Not  here; — unless  the  engines  labour  well 

The  air  were  heavy  with  the  breath  of  Hell. 

89 


90  The  Miner 

Nay,  nay !    I  dream  of  other  sights  than  these, 
The  generous  upland,  yellow  with  the  corn, 

The  graceful  birches  bowing  to  the  breeze, 
The  rose  and  amber  of  a  smiling  morn, 

Rock-whited  streams,  the  warm,  rich-tinted 
noon, 

The  steely  starlight,  and  the  crescent  moon. 

God's  world  is  this,  God's  rhythmic  engines 
beat. 
God's  air  is  breathing  in  the  mine  of  life. 
It  bears  the  scent  of  roses,  faintly  sweet. 
And  shadows  fear,  and  devils  cease  their 
strife. 
And  we  are  labouring  boldly  in  the  night 
Knowing  there  must  be  hills  and  seas  and 
light. 


THE   PENALTY 

A  LITTLE  maid  whose  lisping  tongue 
First    cheered  us  while  the  War   was 
young 
Heard  in  the  rapture  of  her  play 
Of  Death,  two  thousand  leagues  away. 

We  praised  one  who  with  massy  blows 
Smote  hip  and  thigh  a  thousand  foes, 
And  spoke  of  him,  in  grievous  pain, 
Now  numbered  as  a  hero  slain. 

She  trilled  her  song,  with  bending  head. 
Putting  her  pretty  doll  to  bed. 
We  hoped  she  ne'er  would  understand 
The  angry  gun,  the  flaming  brand. 

•         ••••• 

Then  died  in  peace  an  elder  friend. 
Calm  he  had  waited  for  the  end. 
We  stroked  the  little  maiden's  head, 
Told  that  her  best-beloved  was  dead. 

91 


92  The  Penalty 

"Who  killed  him?"  was  the  swift  reply, 
A  blaze  of  anger  in  her  eye. 
Thus,  while  our  sinless"  children  grow 
Our  violence  is  all  they  know. 


SAMOA  AND   R.L.S. 

WHAT  if  the  bones  of  Stevenson 
(As  in  the  sight  of  an  ancient  Seer) 
Gathered  themselves,  and  soon  had  won 

Flesh  and  muscle,  and  tailors'  gear! 
What  if  Stevenson,  thus  arisen. 

Out  of  the  glooms  of  death  came  back, 
Finding  Samoa  his  German  prison 
Rapturous  under  the  Union  Jack! 

Wouldn't  he  hold  his  honest  head 

High  and  proud  in  the  golden  days? 
Wouldn't  he  love  the  man  who  said, 

"Here  is  the  Flag  and  here  it  stays!" 
Wouldn't  he  write  a  wonderful  tale 

Celebrating  the  sudden  fight 
After  the  Anzacs'  headlong  sail? 

Stevenson — who  is  dead  to-night. 


93 


RACHMANINOFF 

A  MOUNTAIN  crag  uplifted  to  the  sky, 
Rising  above  the  murk   and  mist  of 
earth, 
Hearing  the  music,  as  the  stars  go  by, 

Seeing  the  sunbeams  at  the  morning's  birth, 
Yet,  in  itself,  unlovely,  save,  perchance, 

In  simple  mightiness  and  rugged  line, 
Unshaken  by  the  lightning's  gleaming  lance 
Or  by  the  thunders  rolling  through  the 
pine. 

Yet  in  the  crag,  a  grotto  fair  and  white 

Where  springs  a  crystal  fountain,  cold  and 
clear. 
A  dancing  rill  which  takes  its  rapid  flight, 

Down,  down  the  rocks  and  precipices  sheer, 
And  broadens  to  a  river  bright  and  blue 

Which  flows  across  the  plain,  far,  far,  and 
free 
Bringing  divine  content  to  us  and  you 

Till  it  is  lost  in  one  eternal  sea. 


94 


Rachmaninoff  95 

A  man,  unlovely,  but  of  iron  face, 

The  lines  of  toil  and  battle  on  his  cheek. 
His  glance  severe.     The  sorrow  of  a  race 

Written  upon  his  brow.     His  manner,  meek 
And  youthful,  but  a  drift  of  iron  grey 

Touches  his  sable  hair  with  sombre  light. 
A  gladiator,  ready  for  the  fray, 

A  strong,  true  man,  of  majesty  and  might. 

He  sits,  and  from  the  instrument  he  brings 

A  limpid  rill  of  music,  sunny  bright. 
Vv'e  hear  the  melody  that  Nature  sings. 

We  see  the  stars  upon  a  wintry  night. 
We  dream  of  love,  its  magic  and  its  pain, 

Its  ecstasies,  its  deep,  resistless  tide 
Sweeping  through  life  to  the  eternal  main. 

The   very   gates   of   Heaven   are  opened 
wide. 


THE  DEMAGOGUE 

ONE  blows  the  spark  and  laughs  to  see 
His  power  to  compel  the  flame. 
''Behold  the  influence  of  Me!" 
He  boasts,  "The  magic  of  My  name!" 
Then,  as  the  spark  is  counted  tame. 
Roars  the  red  giant,  fury-free. 

One  blows  the  spark,  his  private  flame, 
His  pleasure,  glistening  and  fine. 

Now,  when  he  cometh  to  his  shame, 
War  lifting  high  the  baleful  wine 
Toasting  red  death  to  me  and  mine, 

Mark  you  that  thrice-accursed  name! 


96 


CONTENT 

COULD    I,  with  a   thousand   friends,  or 
more, 
And  a  thousand  tuneful  songs  in  the  air, 
Walk  discontented  on  earth's  bright  floor. 
And  ask  more  peace  than  my  present  store 
Which  is  excellently  rare? 

I  hold  with  an  ancient  Prince  who  said 

That  wealth  and  poverty  both  were  ills. 
I  shall  never  be  rich,  since  my  sons  have  bled, 
And  I  can't  be  poor.     Though  the  boys  be 
dead 
They  walk  on  the  silver  hills. 


97 


LAKE   LOUISE 

RED  was  the  log.     The  lights  burned  fair 
On  ageing  oak  and  rosy  stair. 
The  viol  sang  of  Nedda's  pain, 
And  sobbed  and  laughed  and  wept  again, 

A  marvellous  maid  in  apple  green 
Came  whispering  to  the  window  screen 
That  there  were  wider,  braver  stores 
Of  beauty  in  God's  out-of-doors. 

I  looked,  and  the  mysterious  guest 
Wore  winking  stars  upon  her  breast. 


9« 


THE   ETERNAL  WHY 

(To  the  memory  of  Mr,  S.  T.  Wood) 

OUT  of  a  red  and  clangorous  world 
My  friend  departed 
When  passions  were  caught  up  and  whirled 
Into  a  mad  typhoon  of  death, 
Full  willingly  he  spent  his  breath, 
Sorry  and  weary-hearted. 

For  he  had  hoped  that  war  was  done, 

That  men  were  tender. 
How  he  abhorred  the  burly  gun ! 

Dreaming  that  soft  persuasion's  art 
Might  change  our  world's  dull,  greedy 
heart, 
Be  her  defender. 

Yet  he  had  found  in  Nature's  world 

Inclement  hating. 
The  pupa,  where  a  leaf  was  curled 

By  winged  foes  was  fiercely  sought. 
And  e'en  the  singing  victors  fought 
When  they  were  mating. 

99 


loo  The  Eternal  Why 

If  man  were  Heavenly,  if  his  hope 

Were  on  foundations, 
Whether  by  candle,  alb  and  cope 
Or  by  the  Self,  in  bond  with  God ; 
Then  why  the  horsemen,  iron-shod, 
To  slay  the  Nations? 

No  problem  of  our  time  alone. 

My  gentle  brother. 
Still  growls  the  cannon's  monotone. 

We  hope,  while  fighting  hand  to  hand. 
And  we  must  die  to  understand 
Our  Spartan  mother. 


THE  THREE   MORE  WISE   MEN 

THREE  Sages  came  from  the  land  of  Ur 
With  a  tinkhng,  sleepy  caravan, 
Bringing  jars  of  frankincense,  nard  and  myrrh 

To  honour  the  infant  Son  of  Man, 
For  the  Star  hung  low  like  a  heavenly  gem 
O'er  the  drowsy  stable  of  Bethlehem. 

And  the  blundering  years  are  fled  away, 
A  score  of  centuries,  dark  and  grim. 

But  three  more  Sages  marched  in  today 
With  their  saddles  worn,  but  their  horses 
trim. 

The  dew  of  a  world  in  grief  distils 

On  the  sentries  pacing  the  sacred  hills. 

And  one  of  the  Three  is  good  St.  George, 

A  cavalryman  of  ancient  time, 
Still  hunting  dragons  through  vale  and  gorge, 

In  the  memory  of  the  Bow  Bells'  chime. 
And  though  he  march  w4th  a  mountain-gun 
He  wears  the  Cross  of  the  Virgin's  Son. 

lOI 


102  The  Three  More  Wise  Men 

And  here  St.  Andrew,  a  sailorman, 
Beholds  the  village  he  used  to  know 

Before  he  came  to  his  Highland  clan 
And  saw  the  heather's  unending  glow. 

And  his  white  cross  ruffles  it  in  the  breeze 

Which  laughs  in  the  dim,  old  olive  trees. 

And  the  third  Wise  Man  from  the  shining 
West 

Is  bold  Saint  Patrick,  a  chaplain  still, 
With  the  song  of  the  ages  in  his  heart 

As  he  looks  for  the  Star  across  the  hill. 
Now,  under  his  ancient  Cross  of  white, 
He  hears  the  music  and  sees  the  light. 

And  the  three  Wise  Men  from  the  West  have 
brought 
Their  gifts  of  liberty,  love  and  truth 
To  the  ancient  land  where  the  world  was 
taught 
The  unknown  arts  of  brotherly  ruth. 
Long,  long  the  march,  but  the  Land  is  won 
By  the  three  good  Knights  of  the  Virgin's  Son. 


A   BALLADE   OF   CLOWNING 

ALTERNATE  victories  and  defeats, 
The  face  of  earth  forever  marred, 
The  widows  in  a  thousand  streets, 
And  twenty  milHon  men  on  guard. 
The  reek  of  gas,  the  jagged  shard. 
The  narrow  trench,  the  wicked  wire! — 

Compassion  for  a  Motley  Bard 
A-clowning  with  the  world  on  fire. 

Now  Liberty  her  life  entreats. 

She  fears  the  wolf,  the  ravening  pard. 
What  crumpled  shapes  the  morning  greets, 

There  in  the  meadow,  daisy-starred ! 

They    died.     Their    glorious    limbs    were 
scarred 
By  bloody  Force,  obscene  Desire. — 

Compassion  for  a  Motley  Bard 
A-clowning  with  the  world  on  fire. 

Where  are  our  lives  entrancing  sweets, 
Love's  odorous  frankincense  and  nard? 

Red  wrath  and  all  unwholesome  heats 
Dwell  in  our  spirits,  evil-starred. 

103 


104       A  Ballade  of  Clowning 

A  thousand  die  to  gain  a  yard, 
And  hawks  destroy  our  babes,  for  hire!- 

Compassion  for  a  Motley  Bard  . 
A- clowning  with  the  world  on  fire! 


l'envoi 


Prince,  ever  you  inspect  the  Guard 
Paraded  at  your  high  desire, 

Be  gracious  to  a  Motley  Bard 
A-clowning  with  the  world  on  fire. 


Jl  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Complete  Catalo^oe  sent 
on  application 


FIRST  CALL 

BY 

ARTHUR  GUY  EMPEY 


GUIDE 
POSTS 

TO 

BERLIN 


Author  of  "OVER  THE  TOP' 

J 2°.     Illustrated.     $1.50  {By  mail,  $1.65) 

In  the  amazingly  vivid  and  simple  way  that 
has  made  Over  the  Top  the  most  widely  read 
and  talked  of  book  in  America,  and  the  most 
successful  war  book  in  all  history,  Empey  tells 
the  new  soldiers 

What  they  want  to  know 

What  they  ought  to  know 

What  they ^11  have  to  know 

and  what  their  parents,  sweethearts,  wives,  and 
all  Americans,  will  want  to  know,  and  can  do  to 
help. 

A  practical  book  by  an  American  who  has 
been  through  it  all. 

The  chapters  headed  "  Smokes  "  and  "  Thank 
God  the  Stretcher  Bearers"  will  stand  among 
the  war  classics. 

Here  is  advice,  here  are  suggestions,  over- 
looked in  other  books,  that  will  safeguard  our 
boys  in  France. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S    SONS 

New  York  London 


"  A   War    Lord   of    Laughter."— TAe 
Literary  Digest 

Fragments   from 
France 


Author  of 


SuUets  4f 


8^.     143  Plates.     15  Small  Illustrations 
$1.75  net.    By  mail,  $i.go 

Captain  Bruce  Bairnsfather's  sketches  set  all  England 
chuckling,  when  they  first  appeared  in  the  Bystander,  and 
they  have  met  with  as  hearty  a  welcome  by  Americans 
who  have  had  the  luck  to  see  them.  Greatest  of  all  com- 
mendation, German  prisoners  have  been  known  to  be- 
come hilarious  over  these  indescribable  pictures  of  life  in 
the  trenches,  and  war-fed  "Tommys"  roar  over  them. 
Now,  with  their  amusing  captions,  they  have  been 
gathered  into  one  volume. 

These  pictures  have  won  in  England  for  the  author  tbe 
title  "  The  man  who  made  the  Empire  laugh,"  and  caused 
iht  Literary  Digest  to  refer  to  him  as  "  A  War  Lord  of 
Laughter."  They  are  all  war  pictures,  but  calculated  to 
take  a  deal  of  the  bitterness  out  of  war. 


IT  IS  THE  REAL  STUFF 


OVER  THE  TOP 


BY  AN  AMERICAN  SOLDIER  WHO  WENT 

ARTHUR  GUY  EMPEY 

MACHINE  GUNNER,  SERVING  IN  FRANCE 
AUTHOR  OF 


tt 


FIRST  CALL" 


For  a  year  and  a  half,  until  he 
fell  wounded  in  No  Man*s  Land,  this 
American  soldier  saw  more  actual 
fighting  and  real  warfare  than  any  war 
correspondent  who  has  written  about 
the  war.  His  experiences  are  grim, 
but  they  are  thrilling  and  lightened  by 
a  touch  of  humor  as  original  as  the 
Soldiers   Three.     And  they   are   true. 

12°.    16  Illustrations  and  Diagrams.     $1.50  net, 
By  mail,  $1,65 

TOGETHER  WITH  TOMMY'S  DICTIONARY  OF  THE 

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it 


Over  The  Top  with  the  Best  of 

Luck  and  Give  Them  Hell!" 

The  British  Soldier's   War  Cry,  as  he  goes  over  the 
top  of  the  trench  to  the  charge 


Bullets  &  Billets 


By 

Bruce  Baimsfather 

Author  of  **  Fragments  from  France 


f» 


12^,   18  Full^page  and  23  Text  Illustrations.   $L50 

By  mail,  $1,60 

*  *  *  Bill/  *  Bert, '  and  *  Alf '  have  turned 
up  again.  Captain  Bairnsfather  has 
written  a  book — a  rollicking  and  yet 
serious  book — about  himself  and  them, 
describing  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  his 
first  six  months  in  the  trenches.  His 
writing  is  like  his  drawing.  It  suggests 
a  masculine,  reckless,  devil-may-care 
character  and  a  workmanlike  soldier. 
Throughout  the  book  he  is  as  cheerful 
as  a  schoolboy  in  a  disagreeable  football 
match." — London  Evening  News, 

G.  P.  Putnam^s  Sons 

New  York  London 


Ijipnii^ 


m 


